


Albatross

by Windian



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Daddy Issues, Gen, So many daddy issues, Tales of Zine 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: There were so many things Hubert had wanted to say to his father, and now, he'd never say them.On President Paradine's request, Hubert Oswell leads his men to his hometown of Lhant, unable to shake off the shadow of his childhood. Raymond is deeply unhelpful about the whole thing. Written for the Tales of Zine 2017.





	Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Tales of Zine.](https://talesofzine.tumblr.com/)




 

> "And we did speak only to break
> 
> The silence of the sea."

 

Little else has occupied your mind the last few weeks.

The Lhant militia, little more than a disorganized rabble, held no chance against the cold and impersonal might of the Fendellian force. Lord Aston had sent a request of aid to the capital-- aid, President Paradine had informed you, a sinking feeling in your gut-- that was not forthcoming.

Your fingers had dug into the wood-grain of the President's desk, as you'd forced your back to remain straight, forced your voice to stay even, as Dylan Paradine had informed you of Lhant's pitiful plight: “Alas, Hubert, the winds are changing. Lord Aston's thrown his lot in with the wrong King.”

You'd thought of the immovable father of your childhood, sometimes seeming more stone than man. His will, and punishments, had been absolute, meted out behind the desk in the study you nor your brother had been allowed to touch. After seven years, his face indistinct now, more caricature than man, a stone statue of some lost, historical figure.

“Well, that sounds like him,” you'd said.

The President himself had asked you to lead this mission. “Personal and familial ties to help ease the transition of power,” he'd put it, although, briefly, he had hesitated.

“I would appreciate your help with this endeavour, but I understand if those ties would make it too difficult for you to return to your hometown, Hubert.”

Sometimes, you'd wonder just how it is the President just _knows_ so much about you. But then, he seems to know everything about _everybody_.

It's probably why his political rivals are so terrified of the man. Case in point: the gala where, in between passing over a plate of sautéed seabream, he'd chipperly asked the shadow chancellor how the tax evasion was going.

To the President's question, naturally, you'd scoffed. “Lhant is no hometown of mine. Those ties are cut, Sir. I'm a man of Strahta now.”

The President had smiled that particular wan, knowing smile of his.

“Very well, Hubert. Make Strahta proud.”

Understandable, that the President would be concerned about your ability to lead the mission, though it occurs that there may be more to it. Your mind snags upon an old memory: the President's hand on your back when you were a lost, homesick country boy in the desert city so large it threatened to swallow you like a sinkhole.

Foolish sentiment. You push it aside.

You turn over in your hammock, which sets the whole thing rocking dangerously in the dark underbelly of the ship, the one which will transport yourself and the Strahtan forces to Lhant.

You can't help but picture it: Aston's men overwhelmed, how you'll lead in your platoon into the enemy's flank with the precision of an arrow. Would anyone recognise you? You conjure the blurry image of faces from your childhood, turned in shock as Lhant's second son returns triumphantly home. No longer timid, cowering Hubert, but _Lieutenant Oswell._

Mostly, you imagine your father: his shocked face as as you stride into his office, crumpling as you inform him- Lhant is now under _your_ jurisdiction. (You picture, perhaps a little spitefully, your hands planted firmly on the desk you were never allowed to touch). Aston's head in his hands, utterly defeated.

No-- instead, he's angry. He unsheathes his sword, and in your hammock you viciously grind your teeth as you imagine the blows, imagine knocking the blade from his hand, squeezing your jaw so tight it _aches_ . As his sword clatters to the floor, you tell him: _perhaps, Lord Aston, you should have thought harder before tossing me aside._

 _I should have been your heir,_ you say.

 _I was only a_ _child_ , you say.

You imagine Aston on the carpet, lip split, blood on his chin, laughing, the comic book villain as he vows: _and I would have done it again!_

\--You imagine his stone impartial face, even now, unbroken, always stone-- _stone_ \--

You imagine your father, begging forgiveness. _It was a mistake,_ he tells you, _I see that now._ He opens his arms for you, and--

A loud bang at the door knocks you from your reverie with the force of cannon-fire. Blind, you scramble for your glasses, and only succeed in stabbing yourself in the face with them.

“What?” you call, lowering your voice and hoping it sounds grumpy at the sudden interruption, and not because you’ve almost poked your eye out.

Raymond cracks the door open, and you're blinking at the sudden, intrusive sunlight.

“Hey. Sun's up. There's something you ought to see.”

And sitting atop the mizzen, cleaning its wings and oblivious to the excited sailors, is an albatross.

It takes you back.

 

*

 

You'd always dreamed of a sea voyage. How many endless hours had you spent? Imagining the cast-off, the boat ploughing through the waves, speaking with the ship's captain-- _maybe_ , he'd even let you put your hands on the tiller.

But huddled in the downstairs cabin, wrecked with seasickness, you hadn't even seen the cast-off. Mr Oswell--- _father,_ he'd asked you to call him, which had made your stomach lurch further-- had recommended a draught of fresh sea air. But you cling to the side of the ship like a limpet, staring at the churning water, and this, none of this is what you'd imagined.

The albatross circling overhead casts a long shadow over the ship. You've learned that in Strahta, the birds are a kind of good luck charm, a promise of a fair voyage. Not so in Lhant, and when you catch sight of the bird a cold chill fills your chest. Like you've been submerged in icy water.

You grip hold of the stern, hard.

“The waves aren't even that rough. Sounds symptomatic,” you'd overheard Mr Oswell's aide say. You remind yourself to look up the word in your dictionary at home-- until you recall _home_ is on another continent, vanishing, and you feel like you could throw up.

Mindlessly, you turn the cryas charm-- the one Asbel had given you-- over in your pocket. It's been with you ever since you left Lhant and although it's been the antithesis of _lucky_ so far, you can't seem to bring yourself to part from it.

“Young Master Oswell?”

You thumb the little bag, over and over, and it's only when the ship's captain puts a hand on your shoulder and repeats, “Young Master Oswell, you with us?” that you jump and realise-- he's talking to _you._

When you'd woken up this morning in your cabin, your old clothes had vanished-- the outfit your mother had picked out for you. The warm and well-worn woollen things had been replaced by a light-weight and finely-woven material, designed for desert living.

Was it really possibly to slip into a new identity, as easily as changing into a new set of clothes?

“The boat rocks less when you're closer to the centre of the ship. How about I show you the bridge?”

You've never been good at looking people in the eye, but you make yourself look up at the Captain. He has a broad, kind face, the opposite of Mr Oswell's.

You nod.

The bridge is just like the pictures in your books: the wheel, the laquerwood tiller, the sparkle of the gleaming, polished compass. You run your hands over them, without interest. None of it seems quite real. The albatross casts a shadow on your heart.

The Captain lets you hold the wheel, explains how the compass uses the magnetic poles to point north-- you already know this, but it's easier to listen than to speak.

Eventually, the Captain acknowledges your inattention.

“Seems like you're still feeling a bit under the weather. Another time perhaps, eh, lad?”

 

*

 

Most people have learned to leave you alone when you're in a bad mood. Alas, your cousin, Raymond, never seems to have learned this knack. He takes to sitting in your cabin in the evenings, listening to the lamp creak overhead, offering to play cards, utterly oblivious to his unwantedness.

You tolerate it, just as you've always tolerated Raymond's presence, because the simple fact of the matter is that you pity him. An unsuitable heir to the Oswell family and fortune, he'd been replaced by a better model. Unwise to this twist in the beginning, Raymond had made it his mission to be Big Brother to the shy young lamb from Lhant-- a title he could never hope to live up to. Like it or not, fate and an awful sympathy have lashed the two of you together-- more ties you wish you could cut.

“So, Lhant,” Raymond drawls, his voice grating like a bad headache, because can't he see you're trying to _read_? “Bet it's going to be weird going back, huh?”

“Indeed.” Emphasis on the full stop. But if Raymond hears your short, curt tone, he decides to ignore it.

He props his feet up on your desk-- your lip curling-- and announces: “I bet they won't even recognise you. I remember when you arrived in Yu Liberte. So shy you could hardly speak. Lucky I was there to show you the ropes, huh?”

 _Lucky._ Your lip curls further, into a sneer. “Certainly was.”

Your pointing sarcasm whizzes past his ear like a knife against a magician's wheel, and misses him entirely. He leans forward, hands pressed against his thighs. “Looking forward to seeing your parents again? Your brother?”

“My _brother,”_ you exhale the word in an angry breath, “no longer resides in Lhant. He shirked his responsibilities and ran away in some foolhardy quest to become a knight.”

“He threw away his title? What a moron,” Raymond says, and for once, you and your cousin agree on something. For a moment, there's a twang of something wistful in his otherwise deeply aggravating voice: a longing for some possibility long gone.

“As for my former parents, I no longer care either way.” Your voice is just a little too loud, with a bit too much certainty.

Because of course, to miss the people who cast you aside would be illogical. And you may be accused of many things, but _illogical_ is not one of them.

 

*

 

In Barona, your dad treats you to ice cream.

You should have known, even then, that something was amiss. Even as a Lord, Lord Aston was no lavish man. Treats were to be worked for, to be _deserved._

But Aston takes you to the ice cream shop on the plaza, and doesn’t even blink as you dare to point to the Turtlez Neopolitan Double Stack Sundae. This day-- and the entire trip in the first place-- has been too good to be true, but you bite your tongue, afraid that whatever has come over your austere father will break like a spell in a story book.

Yesterday, the two of you had been to visit Gloandi, and Dad had been quiet as you regurgitated all of the facts you knew about the Valkines. Admittedly, although it often wasn't in a good way, Asbel often stole your parents' attention at home. It gave you a little puff of pride to see Dad's eyes fixed so solely on you. Sat on the castle wall, he'd listened to you as you told him about King Jacob style battlements, and had even put an arm around your shoulders.

Shovelling down your neapolitan before he can change his mind and take it back, you can't help but feel a twinge of guilt. While you and Dad are sight-seeing and eating ice cream, Asbel is grounded at home.

“How long will Asbel have to stay in our room for?” you ask.

Dad's eyebrows knot together. He sighs. “If he's behaved himself when I return, I'll unground him.”

You don't notice the lack of plural.

You instead consider, knowing Asbel as well as you do, that he'll be grounded for a long while yet. Your poor brother.

“I'll buy him a souvenir,” you decide. “For when we get back.”

Aston's brows draw further; a bow drawn tight. For a moment, he sighs.

“There's something important I need to tell you, Hubert.”

 

*

In the summer, when you were small, Dad would take you and Asbel boating out on lake Grale.

You and Asbel carry an oar between you down to the water-side, alive with waterboatmen and low-flying dragonflies in hues of red and blue. Sometimes, your mother comes out, too. Your father rows out and Mum breaks out boiled eggs and buttered bread with a little cache of salt twisted in a napkin. You have a picnic there in the boat, knocking knees and rocking every time Asbel gets too grabby for the raspberry tarts.

Sometimes, you stay out so late the sun sinks on the horizon, throwing washes of ochre out over the water. You watch the sun for so long that when you close your eyes it lingers: a burnt afterimage on the back of your retinas, and _you'll ruin your eyes like that, Hubert_ , Dad tells you.

One day, the incident happens: it's just the three of you, the wind strong, water a little rough. Dragging your hand behind the boat, watching the water trail in tendrils through your fingers, the boat rocks; you fall overboard.

Never a strong swimmer, you panic, breathing in a lungful of water. And it feels like your chest is burning, and you don't know which way is up, which way down. Your cry for help is swallowed by the the water as you plunge back under.

Arms pull around you, and the next thing you know, the boat is rocking dangerously underneath you. You blink upwards, at the sun eclipsed by your brother's tearful face.

Your ears pop, and sound rushes in.

Are you ok, Hubert? Are you okay?

Give him some space, Asbel, Dad tells him, as the boat rocks and he clambers back in.

And how strange, you think. There's a cloud that looks just like an albatross.

 

*

 

Your ice cream is melting.

 _You're being adopted by the Oswell family of Strahta,_ Dad had said, but the words are tangled, the meaning twisted out of them like a well strung wash-cloth. You're hyper-aware of the sun on your pinkening neck and the sticky chill of the sundae glass under your fingers, and surely you've misunderstood. Surely the word doesn’t mean what you think it means, but your dictionary is at home so you can't look up the word _adoption_.

Dad keeps speaking, about the top-quality school in Strahta, an education far better than you could ever receive in Lhant. About preparing for the _future_. But you can't think of the future. You can't even keep your head in the present, because it feels like your brain is full of fog.

When you at last reclaim your voice, it's to interrupt Dad as he chugs on, full spiel, your voice splintering: “Am I... being punished?”

Dad stops, the pause as abrupt as though someone, somewhere, has pulled the plug on your father. Something seems to slip away from him. He makes a funny movement, as though to reach out, touch your shoulder-- but at the last moment, thinks better of it.

“Of... of course not, Hubert.” This about about your future, he reiterates. You and Asbel can't both be lord of Lhant.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Can I... write to you, and Mum and Asbel?”

Maybe, it might not be so awful. You can write Asbel, about the desert, and the famous fountains of Yu Liberte, all the places you've only seen in books-- he'd be so jealous.

Again, Dad looks away. “I don't think that's a good idea. A clean start would be easier.”

“Oh.”

With an air of desperation, he speaks swiftly about the boat that will take you to your new home-- you _like_ boats-- he says, sounding more like he's trying to assure himself. Over Dad's shoulder, you watch out of the window as a street-seller parades past with a bouquet of balloons. You imagine cutting them-- watching them drift one by one into a bottomless blue sky.

Your throat is so tight it hurts to talk, but somehow you manage the words: “I didn't even get to say goodbye.”

Dad jerks to another halt. He's silent, a carved statue of the father you know.

Maybe, he has been this way for a long time.

“One day, you'll thank me,” he says, more firmly and his eyes go to your hands. “You've... ice cream all on your fingers, Hubert,” he says.

“Oh...” you say.

 

*

 

You're nearly about ready to take out your pistol and shoot the blasted bird when land is finally sighted on the horizon.

The end of the ship, where the albatross has taken as his perch point, is piled up with rations: bread, coveted bits of fruit. It looks like some sort of ridiculous shrine.

For otherwise such sensible men, how can sailors be so damned superstitious?

You check yourself as you step out onto land. The tiny port seems even smaller than you remember it. You look over the familiar buildings, at the faces that turn to watch the large Strahtan contingency disembark in open curiosity: some of them you remember. Despite your assurance to the President that _familial ties_ would not hinder you, there had been an uncertainty-- would you be able to keep your heart in check when faced with your hometown? But to your relief, the bricks are just bricks and faces are just faces, and you feel no flutter of weakness in your chest at all.

Good.

There's a shine of hope on the harbourmaster's face as he approaches you, Raymond stepping into place by your side.

You offer the man your hand. “My name is Lieutenant Oswell of the Strahtan Army. We're here to provide support to the town of Lhant and help push back the Fendellian invasion.”

If the man recognises you, he doesn’t show it. Instead that tentative glimmer of hope gives way to relief. “Oh, thank God. We'd given up waiting. So many requests of aid sent to the Capital, and no help forthcoming. Bless you, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupts Raymond. “We'll clean up these Fendel mongrels and have them sent packing back to their den before dinnertime. How many men does Lord Aston still command?”

“A sizeable portion of the militia are up at the town proper. They've lost the border and have drawn back to defend the town. They're attempting to fortify it as well as they can, after the loss of Lord Aston--”

The words submerge you in icy water.

“Loss?” you demand, sharper than you intended.

“Ah. Perhaps the news might not have reached you yet in Strahta. It was about a week ago. The poor Lord perished in battle.”

“I see,” you manage.

“A tiny spot of good luck, however-- young Master Asbel has returned from the capital to take up his father's mantle. And with your platoon's assistance--”

“Asbel?” you spit. Your runaway brother is _here?_

Your sudden outburst attractions both Raymond and the harbourmaster's attention, who stares, taken aback. “Ah. You know him?”

You fight down the insidious flush. It's not like you to lose your cool. “An old acquaintance, from a long time ago,” you mumble, even though you despise mumblers. “No connection of importance.”

“I see,” says the man, and you can feel him taking you in in a more openly curious manner. “Say, don't I know--”

“Forgive me, sir, but we must reconvene and discuss our strategy, now we know that Lord Aston is no more,” you interrupt, and he bites down his curiosity.

“Ah. Of course, sir. Best of luck to you all.”

You waste no time in turning away, barking an order to Raymond to organise the resupplies when he dogs your steps.

“About Lord Aston--” he says.

“Did you hear me, Raymond? Resupplies. Now.”

Raymond's mouth sets in a sour line. “Very well, Lieutenant.”

A kind of fury builds in you as your steps hasten, as you storm back to your cabin. _How dare he die?_ You think. _How dare he?_ _The complete gall of it all._

You've never managed to figure out what you would say to your father. A thousand different things you'd wanted to say to him, to ask him, and now the possibility is gone.

Like balloons cut at the strings on a hot day in Barona, vanishing.

 

*

 

Catacombs; the smell of stagnant water; a monster with red, glowing eyes.

As the blackness spread across your vision as ink spilled on paper, you'd thought of the albatross you'd seen in the clouds from the boat as a small boy. Maybe, after all, the death it had predicted was your own.

The last thing you saw as you blacked out: the terrifying monster, bearing down upon your brother and Sophie.

 

Consciousness comes back to you in dribs and drabs. For a long time you lie there, comfortable in your state of awake-not-quite awake inertia, halfway between reality and dreams.

When the memories of the previous night hit you: the catacombs, the monster, the air knocked out of you-- you feel a phantom of a sucker punch. Heart beating a mile a minute, you bolt upright, an unsettling dysphoria settling in your chest as you take in the clean clinical walls, the unfamiliar surroundings.

A clinic?

Your eyes snag on the tuft of auburn hair by your lap.

Hunched awkwardly on the bedside chair, half way off the seat with an elbow slung over the bed, Dad is fast asleep. With a surprise, you find his hand in your own. It's been years, more than you can remember, since Dad has held your hand.

A heavy, wet feeling rises in your throat, as you remember the adoption conversation. A lead feeling on your chest, like you're drowning all over again.

And you pull your hand away.

 

*

 

“Come on, private. Spit it out. He's been in there hours. What is _he_ doing?”

Still, private Alby hesitates. Honestly, Raymond thinks, getting anything out of these men is like bleeding a stone. How on Ephinea his cousin inspires such loyalty, he'll never understand.

“Well, he's been pacing around a lot,” Alby hedges.

“Yes? And?”

“He, uh, smashed a few bottles.”

“I see. And?” Raymond winces. How terrible. He just hopes his cousin spared the best vintages.

“From the noises, we think he kicked something? Or hit something, anyway--”

Loudly Raymond interjects, “And none of you thought to intercede?”

“We, uh, thought it best to leave him be for a time. The Lieutenant enjoys his privacy.”

Raymond sighs, shakes his head. “Then it certainly is a lucky thing his cousin is here. Let me see to the poor wretch.”

“I'm not sure, sir, that--”

“It's no problem at all,” Raymond says, with a generous gesture of the hand. “After all, we are family.”

It’s so hard getting under Hubert’s collar these days. He’s _got_ to see this.

Blindly ignoring the sailor's dubious look, he turns to fling open the door to the cabin. “Dry your eyes, dear cousin, it's time to--”

He stops, when he realises the room is empty. There's broken glass on the floor, and a sack of flour has spilled. Most likely due to a being-kicked related incident.

He finds Hubert instead, by the port bow. Raymond approaches, all bluster, until he notices there's no sadness in Hubert's face, but fury.

Interesting, thinks Raymond. He'd thought to score points by supporting his cousin, but the prospect of reporting back to Uncle about Hubert's emotional outburst looms far more interesting. He steps back, to observe.

There's a small bag in Hubert's hand-- a cryas charm, the kind made by children. But just as Raymond figures it out, Hubert pitches back, making to hurl the thing into the ocean.

Here's what's interesting: how he stops, how the anger on his face melts into frustration, and then grief. How the charm he'd made to pitch into the sea, he now holds with a kind of reverence.

There's something about his expression that makes him think not of his cousin, Lieutenant Hubert Oswell, but the boy who'd stepped fresh from the boat. Small, pale Hubert, who hadn’t been able to look their teachers in the eye, sticking to his shadow like glue for those first uneasy few months. “Do try to toughen the boy up,” his uncle had said with a sigh, so of course he had-- when Uncle asked something of you, it wasn't an optional request. The boys in the dorm had taken little convincing: Hubert was too small, too shy and too foreign, and only a name and Raymond's influence had previously stayed the vultures from pilfering his things-- common practice for fresh meat at the Academy. He hadn't felt good about it, but afterwards Hubert was able to raise his head and meet your eyes, even if the ones that looked back at you were steely.

Raymond tucks this moment of vulnerability away, for later use.

He announces his presence with a loud cough, and immediately that vulnerability vanishes as though it was never there. Hubert’s hand closes around the charm like an oyster swallowing a pearl.

“How are you holding up, cousin? The first mate told me something interesting-- something about someone massacring the merlot--”

Hubert's expression sours. Even after all these years, it gives you a kind of satisfaction to see it.

“I don't have time for your nonsense, Raymond.”

“What's that you've got there?”

Hubert squeezes his hand so tight the knuckles whiten. “Nothing. Just some trash I found lying around.”

“Oh? I'd be happy to dispose of it for you, cousin.”

Visibly, Hubert's jaw tenses, a flush fighting its way up his neck. This is so much _fun_ , Raymond thinks.

“I'm not interested in this conversation, Raymond,” Hubert says, before he storms of in a huff. As you stifle a gleeful smile, you hear him mutter something under his breath.

“...Too damn superstitious.”


End file.
